Checklist For My Next Lover

Don't ask questions, if you don't want answers

to what I think about 

when we lie in bed, post coitus, staring at the ceiling fan.

Even if it seems as though my twist toward your kiss means more-

as I interlock our fingers, as if fingers 

are handed a mission statement before birth

and ours were meant to loop like this, pinky against pinky.

Know that it is only my body betraying my mind.

My stern attempt not to love you may grow soft from the oxytocin of touch and

the sun of our lovemaking.

But even when I seem convinced that anything is possible, even the impossible, 

 like loving you the way you love me.

I will alway stay the lover you can't own or have completely.

I'm the woman you'll only know by the curve of her hips and the hiss of her lips on

your neckline. 

Don't become a filament over the blue of my eyes  

when you could stay a glimpse at immortality, a pathway to transcend the body 

to the sphere just outside, where time ceases to matter

and the ball of the universe grows warm in our bellies.

I'll love you more than the next lover and never 

as much as the lovers before you- the ones I learned these rules from.

Those I loved, who didn't love.

Those whose fingers traced mine and I imagined in rare,

when, really, my body was doing for them

what so many others could have done just as soundly-

and did, or would, or hadn't yet.